


Phantasmagoria Blues

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Ghosts, Haunting, One Shot, Post-Canon, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: The Kingdom of God lived inside her. Most people will call that a breakdown. (In which Vera speaks to Joan like the memory of Ivan.)





	Phantasmagoria Blues

**Author's Note:**

> @lovlyme on Twitter proposed the idea where Joan haunts Vera. Joan acts as this omnipresent force which mirrors the interactions between Joan and her father, Ivan, on the show. So, I took a stab at it.
> 
> Since it's post-canon, Bridget made a return for... convenience in storytelling. This was such a challenge to write, but an absolute delight to try.

Anger and mistrust manifested as something new, as someone old. Wrinkles sullied her uniform which was the telltale sign that the job consumed her. Downtrodden, she experienced the throes of breaking down. The bleak lighting of the Governor’s office brought out Vera Bennett’s ashen pallor. 

She was a puppet, a pawn, to the bureaucracy of a poorly run prison. Jake played her for a fool and Channing used her desperation to stay. Struggling to remain afloat, Vera pinched the bridge of her nose.

A ghost reflected in the windowpane made real, the Master of Decay made her presence known. In the absence of presence, a woman in black stood tall behind her. One wrong move and she’d be torn apart. Joan Ferguson’s imposing presence towered over her. Dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the desk, Vera shrunk further into her seat.

The undone and the divine occupied the same office. A miserable, doe-eyed woman caved in on herself. The stress of her career and life itself marked the start of her unraveling. A part of her knew this to be an illusion. Sometimes reality was too difficult to face. So, she turned to her adversary with her fingers drumming against the table. Her deceitful protégé sought out her advice once more.

“My career is in shambles. Two inmates are _missing_. I’ve Director Channing breathing down my neck. I—I don’t know what to do,” Vera murmured, her fingers dragging across the nape of her neck. “Help me.”

Ferguson tutted, her arms folded square across her chest. Resembling a gargoyle, she remained statuesque. Buried six feet under, she was a hollow myth.

Her governor reigned as master.

Once, they aspired to be two straight lines in a crooked world entitled “corrections.” Vera spared a wary glance over her shoulder. Concern knitted her brows together. Joan’s expression gave nothing away. The Governor was more than capable woman. Joan would know what to do. Loyal to a fault, old habits die hard. Her desire for acceptance blinded her. Did it make her a weak-willed woman? Perhaps.

“You’re in over your neck. _Focus_ , Vera. You cannot afford for the prisoners to overrule your executive action.”

She sounded as if submerged underwater. Overtime, Joan became crystal clear. Is this how it felt to be a canonical saint? Sitting here, talking to a barbed wire God, in times of trouble.

Vera scoffed.

Under pressure, Vera struggled against the tide. The fear of becoming her mother plagued her. She tried to sit upright to fill the oversized, over-cushioned chair. Try as she might, Vera couldn’t take up that empty space.

“I can _never_ be like you.”

Exhaustion made her body heavy, her eyes weary. Pure melodrama saturated her fucked up life. Torn apart, she had nothing left. Her career dangled on a thin, fraying thread.

“A pity, Vera. Has my mentorship taught you **nothing**?”

Joan sounded like smoke, scotch on the rocks, and well-controlled vice. It sent shivers down her spine. Victim to poor self-esteem, stress drew her brow in. The lines on her face seemed rougher. Her fears made tangible, Daedalus’ statue moved. The Governor’s presence shifted behind her.

Poison crept inside, an infection left to rot. Vera heard it before she saw it: a flicker of disappointment. Her head rolled back, all strain visible in her bird-like neck.

“Such a willing pupil. So eager to _please_. Come now. You can do better.”

Love was a slow, desperate strangulation. Her fingertips flew to her throat. The small, pin prick from the needle wasn’t there anymore, but she found herself choking still. A scar will do that to you.

The Governor’s words cut and cut and cut. It was a hacksaw effect. Vera wondered if any piece of her was left.

“Enough,” Vera squeaked. “I won’t have you degrade me. I know what I’m doing.”

Based on the truth of the dilemma, she didn’t. Lies stuck. The memory of leather wouldn’t leave her. Miserably, her hands curled and turned like a key finding a lock. She heard the rustle of an ironed suit.

Twilight confusion seized hold. Self-preservation was key. Fraught with tension, her molars ground together as she worked her jaw. The thorn embedded in her side spoke with such malice. Here stood her saboteur.

Her career was over anyway.

First, Meg Jackson. Memory had forgotten Erica Davidson. Then, Joan Ferguson. Now, her.

“Prove iT. Will you let that vile snake, Mr. Stewart, win?” Joan took stoic charge. She closed in for the kill, a gloved hand resting on a stiff shoulder. “Think, Vera,” she commanded.

_Think, think, think._

Rose-tinted glasses hid Vera’s misdeeds: the disposal of incriminating evidence, putting Mum out of her misery, refusing to make a deal, and so on. Vera ferreted out the secrets. Engrained in her nature, it’s what she does. Her fingers found the keyboard.

“Channing,” Vera snapped in a brittle voice, frazzled, frayed around the edges.

Slipping into a skin that wasn’t her own, she abandoned her nerves to latch onto confidence. Time to emulate a method that wasn’t - _isn’t_ \- hers. She needed leverage. Luckily, Joan left a stain on her soul and molded Vera into a black revolution.

“You haven’t forgotten the brothel, have you?”

Invading personal space, Joan bent forward. Her mouth ghosted across the shell of her ear, closer still. She peered at the glow of the monitor along with Vera.

Wrecked by her optimistic dreams and foolish hopes, Vera continued to seek guidance. She glanced at her predecessor.

“He has authority over me. For fuck’s sake, he has Jake.” At wit’s end, she swore. She didn’t care how uncouth she sounded. She chose to ignore the glare and flared nostrils.

“Sever the snakehead. You won’t walk away from this unscathed. If your career is as precious as you claim it to be, take acTion.”

Agitated, her hands flew to her face. The heels of her palms dragged her cheeks down. The chair groaned. Fresh conflict reared its ugly head. It didn’t feel like the right thing to do though Vera strayed from that path long ago.

“I can’t gamble with my livelihood, Joan. I can’t—”

_I need you here by my side._

“—Vera, who are you talking to?”

The door swung open. Files rested under the crook of Bridget Westfall’s arm. Her sapphire eyes shone with concern. The maroon blouse spilled over her torso, as if she was coated blood.

Like smoke, no trace of Joan Ferguson was left behind.

Funny how a shadow self could inflict damage. The Kingdom of God lived inside her. Most people called that a breakdown.

Vera shook her head and minimized the files on the screen – the headshots of pretty woman condemned to a self-fulfilled prophecy. She nibbled on her chapped lip.

“Oh, um,” she faltered. “No one.”

The room was empty save for her presence. 

Ferguson left behind her legacy: the remains of Vera Bennett.

**Author's Note:**

> I usually don't provide the songs I listened to, but for ambiance, here are some tunes:  
> "Regret" By: Blue Stahli  
> "Say You'll Haunt Me" Cover By: String Tribute Players (original by Stone Sour)
> 
> As always, I recommend anything by librarytapes.
> 
> The title alludes to the song by Mark Lanegan.


End file.
